Centennial: Voice
by the49thname
Summary: From the distant days of clutching at tattered cloaks, to gripping chipped porcelain between shaking palms, England has always felt difficulty in turning the emotions that creep through the corridors of his mind into words, forever binding his heart to the unspoken. England-centric, FrUK, part of a 100-part fic based on 100 themes.


Hey everyone! Here is another fic for the _Centennial_ series, it's been so long since I updated it I'm so sorry! I completely forgot about it to be honest, but anyway - hope you enjoy reading!

 **Fandom:** Hetalia

 **Pairing:** France/England

 **Song the fic was written to:** _The Shore_ by Chapel Club

 **Warnings:** Rated T for mild violence and sexual themes

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England has always struggled to voice his feelings.

From the distant days of clutching at tattered cloaks, to gripping chipped porcelain between shaking palms, he has felt difficulty in turning the emotions that creep through the corridors of his mind into words, forever binding his heart to the unspoken. Perhaps it was due to his upbringing, harsh and lacking in tenderness that it was. He was not without love; no, he had been loved dearly by his brothers and the mother whom he barely remembers. But it was not love that was expressed with physicality and voice, instead expressed in small gestures often contradicted; it was in the way Scotland ruffled his hair at the end of every fight, the books Wales left outside of his door on lonely nights, the mornings of shared silence with Ireland as they sat and drank tea - they were small moments, often forgotten and deemed as trivial, until late at night they would resurface in England's thoughts as a remembrance of better times.

However for most love is expressed sincerely and clearly, and that was something the nations of the Emerald Isles had never learnt to do. This doomed them to a fate of misconceptions and conflicting emotions, stuck between wanting to express what lay hidden within their hearts and hiding themselves away from this open sincerity the rest of the world was capable of. Between them they knew, for they had spent centuries both at each other's throats and learning the small gestures that said "I love you" far clearer than mere words could ever express. But others struggled to see the difference between stubbornness and apathy, frustration and hatred.

And so England found himself isolated from the rest of the world, yet unable to be close to the siblings he had learnt to live without. But he felt himself needing _something_ as he spent century-upon-century sat alone on windswept cliffs, for his heart ached with a loneliness that no human company could quell for their lives came and went like the tide. Yet the nations he attempted to bond with were at odds with him, so often kept in a state of not knowing where they stood when faced with both need and irritation.

But there was one who always decided to return to him.

England had often wished to fall in love simply and easily, knowing from a first glance that his heart had been claimed by another and feeling no confliction within his often conflicted heart. But it seemed he was doomed to be without such simplicity, for he fell in love with the one person he could neither live without nor stand living with. But it was because France had always returned to his side, be it by love or hatred or something in between, that he could not let go of the bond formed between them.

And so their relationship was defined by the very confliction England had grown weary of.

Yet he was able to express himself most clearly with France for there was something almost instinctive in how he felt towards him; it was as easy as drawing breath, easy as stepping one foot before the other.

When his heart was gripped with rage, mind blank to the whims of bloodlust and savagery, as his fists met soft flesh and his lips formed a satisfied smirk at the wince that followed he knew that at that moment he would have France no other way but beneath him, broken and bleeding, with fire dancing in his eyes as his hands reach up to grip tightly around his throat. There is power in those hands, hatred within that gaze, and something about it sends adrenaline pounding through England's body like poison, sends shivers tumbling from the nape of his neck to the bottom of his spine. And later, when he finds himself sat on cold wooded floorboards, wrapping bandages around aching wounds in silent darkness, he feels something within his heart that pulls his lips into a smile, something that spurs his mind to think of new insults and new means to drive France to that point once more to simply have the _excuse_ to hit and bite and scratch and pull until they both lie ruined at each other's sides, struggling to breathe.

And, perhaps, this need to throw the other into total ruination was what fuelled their lust for each other. It was a desire that burnt like fire and consumed all in its path, a need that coiled itself in the pits of their stomachs and left limbs _trembling_ with anticipation of what was to come. All it would take is one smirk, one sarcastic comment, and England would find himself slammed into a hard wooden floor, hands at his waist and lips pressed with hunger against his own. There was something addictively pleasing about sliding his fingers through neatly tied golden hair, leaving it messy and undone as _he_ is coming undone, blue eyes glinting with a desire that twists his stomach into knots, leaves him breathless and swallowing thickly. Each touch was sparked by a need to leave the other ruined and crumbling beneath lustful ministrations, each kiss fuelled by a desire to see the other trembling and moaning with eyes fluttering shut and toes curling against wooden floorboards with a name tumbling past swollen lips. They had lusted and yearned, felt desire for strangers and nations alike, yet there was something to these shared moments with each other that left them unable to turn away.

Satisfaction may be had from curled fists and fading bruises, pleasure felt from entwined fingers and parted lips, yet neither the hate nor lust they felt for each other were difficult to justify considering their history. No - it was the _love_ they felt, that wordless affection that wormed its way into their hearts, that was impossible to describe nor justify.

Maybe it had begun with more tender moments from their past; small and almost insignificant they seemed in the wake of so much hatred and bloodshed, yet important they were all the same.

There had been amiable silence amongst windswept trees, late afternoon sunshine filling their young bodies and hearts and souls with warmth as they sat, together, surrounded by a peace they would soon come to miss. They had spent endless days like this, gazes trailing the paths of feather-light clouds across clear blue skies, golden light enshrouding their shared reverie.

There had been embraces under bright luminous starlight, fingers interlaced and foreheads pressed together with the moon as their only witness. They had danced in perpetual and beautiful silence, moving in time to music only they could hear, hearts bound by a feeling left unsaid and unspoken and forever kept safe and sound behind caged thoughts, only to be brought out on lonely nights and treasured with small smiles.

There had been moments, secret to all but themselves, where they had watched the other and known without a single shred of doubt that at least part of this unspoken feeling was love. For France it had been on a night like many others, darkness shrouded by clouded moonlight, two children perched on either side of a well-read and aged story book. There England sat, face animated with a childlike excitement that never ceased to warm France's heart, telling tales of princes and princesses, dragons and daring knights, lands never seen before by man and creatures spoken of in hushed whispers by firelight. The wide-eyed half-wild thing that once clung to France's shirt had long since disappeared, though he was kept alive on contemplative days spent sat, hands wrapped around cooling coffee, with eyes half-seeing the cold winter-bound streets outside the window while remembering with both fondness and bitterness days gone by. But, on occasion, the small child England had once been came to the fore and sparked a tiny flame of nostalgia within his heart. As the story came to life before two pairs of excited eyes, the glow of magic illuminating the darkening bedroom, as France sought support from the doorframe he leant against he knew there was no turning back now, no abandoning this feeling swelling unwanted and unbidden from the core of his heart to the tips of his fingers.

The man he both loved and hated had firmly taken hold of his heart, for better or for worse.

For England it had been a strange time, when war no longer sent adrenaline surging through him, excitement and bloodlust replaced with a dreary weariness that sank itself deep into his bones. France had fallen, _he_ had nearly fallen, so wracked with bombs and rationing that he was. Yet they had both made it, clinging to life and some semblance of peace with bloodied fingertips, and on the eve of Victory Day they stood atop the Eiffel Tower. Dusk was yet to fall, the sky ablaze with dying sunlight and receding flames as darkness shrouded Paris in its comforting grasp. Lights began to flicker into life from every shop window to each bomb-shelled house, from the Arc du Triomphe to the River Seine. Paris was alight with tiny fires and the sound of merry-making and celebrating filled an otherwise resound silence.

And there they stood, two war-torn nations at each other's side after centuries of standing apart, drinking in the joy of the people below as if their life depended on it. It was when France turned to him and smiled softly, eyes dancing with the light of his city - _his people_ \- that England felt that wordless unspoken feeling stir once more within his weary heart. They had spent what felt like several lifetimes clutching at life with desperation, clutching at each other's throats and hearts with hatred and bitterness in their eyes. And this one small moment, a moment that held so much beauty and peace it was almost painful, struck a chord with England so _deeply_ he could not let go of it.

Decades pass.

War had left its mark, and for the first time in living memory there was some semblance of peace among the nations of the world. After spending so very long torn between emotions of polar opposites, conflicted over the nature of his heart, the very concept of being at peace with his neighbour across the Channel left England laughing quietly to himself in amusement. Yet peace was the only word to describe it - they still fought, yes, but it was not the bitter feuds of times gone by, nor were they fuelled by the need for land or resources or pride. Nights spent in each other's arms were no longer driven by the desire to ruin each other, and days spent in quiet contemplation in amiable silence were something that would take days, if not years, to get used to.

And it was then, over two millennia from their first meeting, that England found himself wondering what exactly this feeling _was_.

It was the words stuck in his throat, his heart, unable to leave parted lips and jammed steadfast between resolute hatred and tentative adoration. It was the myriad of emotions and feelings that swarmed and swirled in his thoughts, forever present and forever tearing at the wall he had built around himself, keeping others far from his treacherous heart that yearned for love and affection when he had promised himself an eternity of isolation. He had spent several lifetimes hating, and several more in lust and love in equal measure. He had longed, he had despised, he had ached and wept and picked himself off of the dusty ground in dreary repetition until he felt sickened and weary of the world that appeared determined to break him.

Yet how could he express it, this unknown and wordless feeling that clung to his bones, clung to his heart until he was _choking_ on it. It was something that could never be voiced, something that would take both one word and an entire lifetime to explain.

And yet France would _understand_. He would stand there and give the smile England had learned to interpret as one of amusement, and with a shake of his head leave a kiss upon his forehead; it burnt and consumed him, clutched at his heartstrings and left him holding back tears until he was scowling and muttering insults under his breath, fighting to conceal that indescribable feeling spilling forth from his treacherous heart. He wanted to pull on golden hair and leave his own burning kisses against soft lips, and yet he wanted to curl his hand into a fist and leave him bruised and wincing. His desire was, and always would be, a contradiction that would rend him torn between two opposing emotions, his body a battle ground where neither side can win nor know exactly why they are fighting.

And so he settled for actions over words, even if the message he so dearly wished to express was lost beneath confliction and frustration. With a fist he confirmed his hatred, bitter and bloody and aged by centuries of warfare, and with a kiss he reaffirmed his love in all its unspoken tenderness.

He knew that later, when cold sheets of rain drown the world in grey, France will sit and smile with hands wrapped around a cooling coffee mug, thoughts drifting to shared kisses and the knowledge that, if only briefly, England had voiced his love for him.


End file.
